The peaky blinders kidnap Billy Kimber's daughter for ransom. But Tommy gets more than he bargained for when he falls in love.
Will get spicy in the future. Enemies to lovers. Fake dating.
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Wake up. Stare at the tray of tea and toast on the edge of the bed. Don't touch any of it. It would only turn to cardboard mush in my mouth anyway.
Fight the hangover. Push myself up. Throw on the first clothes I find in the wardrobe. Make sure they're not ones Tommy bought me. Try not to look at them, all crumped in duffel bags and shoved into the darkness. Try not to think about it.
Step through the house, too empty and too big, each footstep sending an echo. I've always hated this London house. But Birmingham's too dangerous for me now.
Walk into the meeting room. Watch as every man falls silent and clears his throat, swallowing words I'm not permitted to hear. The real meeting they conduct before the official one begins. Before my one begins.
Go over business. Make decisions. Sign forms. Be frightening, and intimidating. Threaten to kill a gangster's wife because he couldn't collect a bad payment. Be so unhinged nobody doubts the threat. Send them scurrying.
Visit the horses - no, too painful, reminds me of him - go to the pub - no, too painful, reminds me of him - read a book - no - fucking breathe - no - collapse on the floor in the private bathroom and gasp for air.
Clean myself up. Pull myself together. Refuse the opium Roberts offers 'for the pain' and work with him on my father's appeal. Divulge everything I know about the Shelby's, anything that could help, but leave parts out. I don't owe them anything. But somehow it feels worse betraying them than my father. If not for Tommy - don't think about him, don't think about him - then for Polly, for John, for Arthur. Keep them safe. But know I'll have to destroy them all in the end.
Try to ignore the pain that comes with missing them.
Sit at the dinner table in silence. Ignore my mother's tears. Listen to the various gangsters that interrupt with this problem or that. Make decisions. Decide who races, who bets, who dies. Do it without remorse.
Be powerful. Sit in a bathtub of hot water and know that I am more successful than any other woman I know, even Polly, then stop thinking about it because it hurts.
Get used to being lonely. Slip into silk sheets, they must be silk and not cotton, because cotton reminds me of him and I don't want to remember. Drink a glass of wine, and then another, lament the taste because it's not whisky but know a single drop would send me vomiting over the toilet bowl. Consider smoking. Come to the same conclusion. But Thomas never drank wine. He never tasted of it. Wine is safe.
Get drunk enough to throw a bottle at the wall. Or write a letter to him, tear-stained and recounting what a piece of shit he is. Debate sending it. Hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him, until I fall asleep in a ball of hatred.
